The capital night is still,
ghostly still.
I am seated on a long mahogany bench
in deserted Union Station.
I think I am alone
until I see at the end of the bench a tall man
of distinguished country quality,
a man who looks like the president.
He motions me to join him
and offers me a swig from the pint he pulls
from in his hip pocket.
We inhale a deep animating drink.
Careful not to be bumptious, we debate
the state of war and politics.
I tell him I marched in candlelight vigils
opposing jungle adventures.
He laments the loss of the esemplastic power
he once flaunted, condemns the polarity
of the damnable war.
We pause to share another therapeutic snort
and I hear a shout
resounding through the terminal
just in time to see a skinhead sail a glass ashtray,
barely missing the president,
whom I beseech to duck behind me,
a tenuous bulwark.
At once a ragged army
of militant baldheaded crazies bombards us
with a barrage of glass ashtrays,
the president clinging to my unsteady knees.
There is no letup in the blitz
and I wonder what madness is next when
a swinging door materializes.
I urge the president to exit while I attempt
to hold off the bruising assault.
The president stares at me with hound dog eyes
and allows as how he is
much obliged, suggesting one for the road.
I gulp a swig and plead with him to skedaddle.
He scribbles a note, slips it into my coat pocket,
disappears in the night…
I wake up, run
to the bathroom mirror to see how
badly I am cut: not a scratch.
I dash to the closet
to check my coat pocket; no note.
Eventually I am told
by someone on the White House staff
that the president, on removing
the glass ashtrays from the Oval Office and
ordering the marines to surround Union Station,
goes on the wagon and insists
I be the first to know
he has decided to shut down the war.
Of course he never did.
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love and peace, Carole~
Regis
Love always,
Chanti xoxoxo
Be always safe,
Karen
and very different fantasy where no real heroes emerge
even after acts of violence and gallantry and courage;
it makes me question the purpose of it all, if indeed
there is a purpose, not the poetry for that is splendid,
but the programme.
Highly stimulating.
John
Peace, love and light,
Amber
Speaking of dreams, I had a nightmare last night. I would much rather have interesting dreams like you write of.
Blessings,
Christine
Newfie Hugs, Rose
..AM SAVING THIS ONE..
Vesna :)